Unrequited
by HP.que.nette
Summary: Maybe he's realized that he looks so much like her that dating her is practically incest. :Krosh:


**A/N:**Off the Wall fic exchange for the everfab MissMeg377. Enjoy.  
Also, I did this in second person, which I've never tried to do before, so excuse me if it's a bit awkward.

Prompts

1. homemade caramel (got it)  
2. celtics winning the play-offs (I'm not much for pro sports, but it's there in passing)  
3. a big collection of something (check)  
4. someone's deepest darkest secret (It's fairly obvious)  
5. a short-but-sweet note (I'm not sure if it's sweet enough, but you'll live.)

Krosh

* * *

Kristen Gregory is perfectly happy being single, thank you very much. There's so much to do, and you just don't have time to engage yourself in the never-ending cycle of frivolities that always accompanies the liking of a boy.

First, there's the pang in your heart. That goddamn annoying pang. You're sitting in history, minding your own business, when all of a sudden, his signature scent wafts over to you and... _pang_. _You're not thinking about history any more_.

Then, there's the early rising to spend hours, and I do mean _hours,_ making sure you look nothing short of perfect, gearing up for that millisecond his eyes may or may not land on you. And when they don't, you try not to let your heart hurt too much.

After that, there's the fact he seems to permanently move into your mind, evicting everything else out. It's your secret. _He's_ your secret. And everything, as random as it might be, seems to lead back to him. "Kristen! The Celtics won the playoffs!" your dad yells, and when you start dancing up and down in happiness, you try not to let your mind wander back to how _he _would look, making that final jump shot.

And later, when after weeks, maybe even months of lusting after him, you finally pluck up the courage to ask him out, there he is, arms around your best friend. He shoots you a look. You try not to succumb to tears as you dash off to the nearest bathroom, wishing that he would just fall off a cliff and die.

Finally, there's the heartbreak. You sit in your room and cry, and when Alicia, the effortless beauty, tries to talk to you, you don't have the heart to tell her that it's all her fault you're like this. You instead tell her that you've been given a B+ on a paper you just slaved over. She buys it. You somehow keep yourself from smacking her upside the head.

So, you see, liking a boy is completely unnecessary. It causes complications, trauma, stress, and you really _did_ get a B+ on that paper you slaved over.

The worst part is, the crush still lingers long after you swore off him. He gives you a small smile in the hallway, and all you can think about over lunch is how much the two chocolate truffles on your tray resemble his twinkling brown eyes.

You feel hopeless. He's lounging on the bleachers with his friends during soccer practice, and you want to know why fate tortures you like this.

You feel like you don't matter. He gives _her_ a crisp apple covered in warm, homemade caramel. _You_ want an apple. Instead, someone throws an orange peel at you.

You feel guilty. He called Alicia a bitch. He told her he never wants to see her face again. And yet you can't help the fact that your heart is doing the macarena.

You feel like flying. You find a note taped to the inside of your locker. _Meet me at the soccer field._

It's not signed, but you know it's from him. You could recognize his messy scrawl anywhere.

He doesn't say when, but when you walk out onto the grassy field, you see him there, in all his Ralph Lauren glory. You try to hide the pleased smile blooming on your face.

He walks over to you, his adorable brown hair stuffed under an even more adorable blue Yankees hat.

Maybe he's realized _you'll_ appreciate his love of baseball.

Maybe he's realized he Alicia looks so much like him that _dating_ her is practically incest.

Maybe he's realized that you're the one for him.

"I need you to tutor me in French," he says, his cheeks flushed and raw from the biting November wind.

Or maybe he's just realized that your brains can be harnessed.

You want to say no.

You want to tell him to stop looking at you with those melting brown eyes.

You want to walk away.

But you can't.

"Okay," you mutter. You walk to the library, every step you take sinking your heart lower and lower into your chest until your fairly certain it's not in your chest anymore.

You spend three hours with the guy you secretly like, teaching how to conjugate irregular verbs.

You can't help noticing that he smells exactly like Alicia said, only better.

You can't stop the laughter every time he makes a joke. Soon you and him both are cracking up.

You two are laughing so hard, the beady-eyed librarian throws you out.

Which only makes you laugh harder.

You can't even remember why you're laughing, and you suspect he can't either.

And suddenly, he drops his bag. His books come tumbling out, accompanied with about a dozen NYY baseball hats.

They are all different colors; there's even a pink one exactly like what Alicia used to wear.

But that's not what you're staring at.

You're staring at his books. Or rather, the book closest to your feet. You bend down and pick it up, to make sure it's not just the darkness making the words look different.

Spanish II.

Normally, you wouldn't care.

But you just spent the last three hours teaching him about a class he didn't take.

"You don't take French," you murmur, your brain whirring into overdrive, trying to figure this out.

"But you do," he responds pointedly. You blink for a few seconds, completely confused. And then you understand.

Like finally getting a joke told an hour ago.

Like swinging at a baseball after the catcher's already caught it.

Like realizing your deepest darkest secret might not be so deep and dark anymore.

"I'm touched," you laugh, as his face flushes a deep crimson.

He tries to hide it by collecting his scattered things.

He picks up the last hat, and instead of jamming it back into his bag, he jams it onto your head.

_Pang_.

You realize you're falling for him again.

You realize that you're being a hypocrite.

And then you finally realize that you don't _care._

* * *

Soo... Did I do the second person justice? Reviews would be much appreciated!

And this, my friends, marks my last foray into Clique fanfiction. It's been real, but I won't be writing anymore for this fandom. Thanks so much for the reviews and feedback I've gotten from y'all over the last few months.


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